


Without a Word

by stardropdream



Series: Kiss & Tell [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Breaking Up & Making Up, Character Study, Episode Related, Introspection, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 22:24:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3225683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The idea of losing both Porthos and his child is unimaginable for him, and yet his world is falling apart in one short day. </p><p>(Coda fic to 2x03)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without a Word

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> Continuation to the last fic I wrote, this one with a happier (or bittersweet?) ending, as requested by previous requester for the last fic, ahaha. So it kind of falls under a ship challenge bingo for "break up / making up", on top of that. **Please note you don't have to read the previous fic to get this one.**
> 
> Please note that while the main pairing here is portamis, there's also plenty of annamis as well as other past relationships for Aramis, as well as heavy influence of the Dauphin because, well, it's Aramis. And this deals with 2x03, so it's unavoidable.

There’s a brief moment, once the chaos settles, where Aramis forgets how to breathe entirely.

He slams his fist to the wall and the sparking burst of pain is enough to rouse him from his stupor – but by then it’s already too late and his hands are anything but steady as he makes his way down the stairs, into the market’s square, towards Athos and d’Artagnan – in the vain attempt, the vain hope, that perhaps he was mistaken and Porthos will be there. 

A fool’s errand: as if he had taken his eyes off him during that fight, as if he didn’t see him knocked out and dragged away. As if he hadn’t seen that brief moment when Porthos stared down the barrel of a gun, could have been lost to him forever, if not for his own shot from his vantage point – hitting the man square in the chest, only to watch Porthos take the crossbow’s bolt instead. 

His hands are shaking. They haven’t stopped. He doesn’t know if they ever will. They were steady when they left the palace, when they got to the market square, when he situated himself up in the window. His hands were steady when he didn’t let himself think. His hands were steady when he stared down the length of it towards where Porthos and Tariq stood. His hands were steady up until the moment he heard that cry. 

His throat feels too tight, and he knows that if he were to try to speak, there would only be desperation there – no level of calm or peace can find him now. 

He can’t even help collect the bodies – innocent lives laid out and divided, all because of him, terrified of seeing the little baby wrapped in his mother’s arms, not crying now. His own child, wasting away in his cradle and him unable to do a thing. The love of his life (how painful, to know that he is) dragged away and kidnapped, because of him. 

His world is unraveling, so simply, in one short day.

 

-

 

The last few months have been torture.

His thoughts don’t stay in one place anymore – constantly moving, constantly dragging him back through painful memories and forward to painful what-ifs. 

He remembers Porthos holding him down, smiling at him, their laughter as they kissed for the first time, for the tenth time, for the hundredth time – fools for all the world, fools for each other. He remembers Porthos whispering out words to him, reassurance and understanding. And love, he realizes, painfully, belatedly. And love. 

He could never forget that – could never forget the way Porthos looked at him when telling him of Flea, of Charon, of Alice. Could never forget the way Porthos looked at him when Aramis told him of Marsac, of Isabelle. Laid out and bare, whispering their confessions into one another’s skin. There was no fear and there was no hiding. 

_A musketeer doesn’t kiss and tell,_ he’d joked to their captain and Porthos shook his head with such deep, solemn levity (a constant joke, and old laugh between the two of them) and Aramis can remember countless nights with Aramis sobbing out beneath Porthos’ hands and tongue, confessing to all his sins and all his exploits with others. He’d recounted them point by point and Porthos had laughed, lapped up the words from his skin. 

The thought of telling Porthos everything now plagues him still. Telling him of the Queen is out of the question, of the Dauphin – a child that cannot be his. His thoughts are heavy and he knows that he is a fool, knows that he is selfish – but he cannot stay away. 

(He remembers. Of course he remembers. Adele Bessette. Died for love. 

The thought of it happening to Anne, to the Dauphin, is unbearable. 

The thought of it happening to Porthos is unacceptable. Unforgiveable.)

He remembers the feeling of Anne’s words washing over him, comforting him – a mutual understanding, a connection, a comfort. He remembers the feeling of falling in love with her because of it – seeing himself reflected back in her eyes, someone worthy, someone worthwhile, someone worthy of comfort. 

He remembers the feeling of saying goodbye to the love of his life, dead in his arms because of him, after finding her so many years later. He remembers recognizing the second love of his life, pushing him away, protecting him. He remembers the feeling of realization that he is in love with Porthos and always would be. 

He knows what it all seems to Porthos. This time last year, they were closer than two brothers, two lovers, two friends. He had no fear of telling Porthos all his deepest thoughts, all his thoughts and feelings, fleeting and haunted – he had no doubt that Porthos would hear and comfort him, no matter the content. It is Porthos who knows the deepest parts of him and never judged him for it. It was no wonder that he should fall for him. 

How distant and faded just a year feels now. But he still remembers it all – remembers the curve of Porthos’ smile against his cheek, the breath of his name against his ear, the feeling of Porthos shuddering above him and under him, the sound of their mingled laughter as they recount their exploits. The soft way Porthos’ eyes gentled whenever Aramis spoke of love. 

He knows what it’s done to Porthos, these long months of silence, these long months of withdrawal. He knows that Porthos is not blind – has seen it in the way Porthos’ smile fades when he looks away from Aramis, sees it in the way he follows Aramis with his eyes. 

He remembers when he could tell Porthos everything. 

(It is protection – but he knows that Porthos would not see it that way, should he tell him so. And thus he says nothing at all.)

 

-

 

And now Porthos might be lost forever – dead already in the streets. Behind closed doors. Alone and hurt and without his brothers.

His hands won’t stop shaking. He feels as if he is boiling over. The dead are stretched out before him. The living cry in the streets. 

It’s raining and the lip of his hat dips forward but he hardly sees or hears anything, his hands shaking still as he attempts to breathe out, slowly, regain some sense of control.

If he loses them both – his son, _Porthos_ , then –

“What happened?” Athos asks. 

His hand throbs from where he punched the wall and he longs for that feeling of calm control that Athos has long since mastered, longs for some kind of stability in his heart. The only good things in his life and he’s _useless_ —

He takes off his hat if only for something to do. 

“Aramis?” 

“Tariq was in my line of fire,” Aramis says, his voice wooden even to his own ears. “There was nothing I could do.” 

 

-

 

There is so little good in his life – so little that he can lay claim to and be proud of. 

He knows that Athos is right – that the little child can never be his. That he cannot have what he wants. And yet his heart aches with longing for it. He’s twisted up inside, incapable of letting it go. He’s lost so many and if the Cardinal truly suspects, he knows what would be best. He knows that he must stay away, that he must—

He’s seen his son but twice, up close, close enough to breathe, close enough to hold. He held him in his arms and it was for one fleeting moment and for all his life, Aramis will never understand who could possibly, willingly give up their child – who could stand to live without their child. 

His despair is suffocating – to always want what he cannot have. There’s no part of him that could forget, that could move on, that could pretend. The Dauphin is not his child, and yet Aramis cannot envision a life without him in it. 

He has no one to speak to of it. Athos does not understand fatherhood, never could – too insular to ever articulate the thoughts that rattle desperately through Aramis’ mind: endless possibilities, crushing failures and painful, always painful longing. To speak of it is to risk Athos, to risk being overheard – Athos’ advice to pretend and forget is not something that Aramis can even begin to attempt. The idea of it is suffocating more than his lack of words. 

Anne avoids his eyes. 

Even if Porthos knew of it, his eyes would be too soft, too expressive – after his hurt, after his anger, after the betrayal. If Porthos were told, if Porthos could stop being angry with him – even if Porthos knew, Aramis knows what he would say: _what kind of father would pretend to not know his child?_

_What kind of father would forget his child?_ he would ask, and Aramis knows he would not just be thinking of Aramis and the Dauphin. Knows what kind of question would do to Porthos, who lives now still with so many questions that will never be answered. 

And Aramis, his heart bleeding inside of him, knows he can never forget – has only just barely gotten to see him, to know his breath, to know his voice, to know his life and his thoughts and his joys. 

(So many things that Aramis will never know, but to hold him just once is enough to stutter his heart back to life again. 

And to think the child could die is enough to crush him with just breathing.)

_What kind of father would forget his child?_

 

-

 

Later, when he shoves the table aside, with his words scraping into a shout, with his anger boiling over as he crosses to Tariq – it’s knowing that his frustration and explosion of rage is not just at this man who should have put his friend in danger, but at himself for allowing it to happen. 

He cannot breathe. The thought of losing Porthos, the thought of being without Porthos—

(he shoves Tariq back down, his throat raw with his shouting)

—he cannot exist without Porthos. 

 

-

 

His hands are shaking – he remembers the sound of that child’s cry in the market square. He remembers that moment with perfect clarity: he’s only ever held his son once. He’s only ever seen him up close twice. He’s never gotten the chance to see him grow, to hear him speak, to witness him walk, to see him smile. 

To be without him, to lose him before he ever got the chance to know him—

To lose Porthos before he ever got the chance to tell him the truth, to ever hold him again—

He cannot forgive himself for it and all the while his hands are shaking. 

 

-

 

It is only from months of silence, months of practice with pretending, that Aramis does not fall apart right at the seams. He remembers countless moments on the battlefield, watching Porthos fall – he remembers the way his nerves frayed every time, the way he’d shout or stay painfully calm as he slaughtered those who would dare to hurt him. He remembers it all. He’s learned how to be calm when taking care of Porthos, when worrying for Porthos, when stitching Porthos back together again. He’s traced over enough of Porthos’ scars with his fingertips to know the importance of staying calm. 

It’s through the silence he’s cultivated over the last few months that he can pretend that he’s not falling apart, that everything he loves, everything he’s ever loved, could all disappear within the span of one day. 

His hands shake but he remains as steady as he can – his thoughts rattling around on two lives he could not stand to lose. He has grown used to staying silent, keeping hidden, pretending. 

A little life, yet begun.

Another life that he’d pushed away for the sake of protection. What foolish protection he can offer, at least. 

(He thinks of Adele, of Isabelle – dead because of him; all those he loves dying or leaving him behind. 

That it could happen to his son, that it could happen to Porthos—)

 

-

 

He remembers the feeling of Porthos’ hands framing his face, his thumbs tucking into the hollow of his jaw, tilting him up, breathing him in. He remembers the taste of him, the smell of him – remembers the soft, deep rumbles of his breath, of his voice, his tongue and lips brushing down over him. 

He remembers laughing. He remembers his smile. 

He doesn’t remember the moment he fell in love with him (hates and loves that he can’t pinpoint an exact moment) but he remembers the moment he realized, remembers the moment when he knew that Porthos was just as important to him as any person could be capable. 

He remembers the exact moment when he withdrew, remembers the exact moment when he told himself it was for the best. 

He remembers seeing Adele’s tombstone. Remembers that bitter, charred reminder deep down in his heart that what he was doing was for the best, that for the best of everyone, he should stay away, he should protect, he should—

And yet the thought of being without Porthos—

 

-

 

If he loses his son how could he stand to lose Porthos, too?

If he loses Porthos how could he stand to lose his son, too? 

(The answer, of course, is: he cannot. He cannot exist without them.) 

 

-

 

As soon as the terms are set, Aramis is the first to drop his arm down, his hand swinging down to his side, his grip on his gun tight. He’s the first one to step to Porthos. The first one to finally look at Porthos, away from any danger that would hurt him, that would harm him – breathes slowly as if for the first time to see him alive. Something inside of him twists up and snaps – palpable relief on his face. 

And Porthos looks at him as if it’s the most mundane thing in the world, that Aramis should be going to him. For Porthos, Aramis realizes, it isn’t noteworthy that they should be here – it was never a question that Aramis and the others should find him. It was just a matter of waiting it out. 

He breathes out, and his hands aren’t shaking when they reach for Porthos, who hobbles for two steps, not putting any weight on Aramis. Aramis slings one arm around him, the other reaching for Porthos’ arm in turn, draws him closer.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers as Porthos’ arm slings around him and tucks into the back of his neck. He feels the weight of him, his breath at his cheek, his heartbeat steady beneath his hand, and it’s the weight of his own relief he feels more than Porthos’ weight against his shoulders. 

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees after a long pause spent trying to find his own voice, but seems to slump into him after that, just lets Aramis guide him along rather than try to limp along himself, and it’s that surety of Aramis’ strength, Porthos’ failure to question him at all, that gives Aramis the strength to guide him out of the house and to the base of the fountain in the courtyard. Athos and d’Artagnan are behind them, the latter moving to send word to Treville and the other musketeers. 

There’s so much left he needs to say and it almost all comes tumbling out at once. But Porthos looks up at him once he’s settled at the foot of the fountain and says nothing – doesn’t have to say anything at all. There’s a relief there, but no surprise. Just a kind of security that Aramis wishes he could feel in these things – wishes he could be as steadfast as Porthos is. Wishes he could be as worthy of that loyalty as Porthos deems him to be, even after all this time, even after all this distance. 

_You’re alive,_ Aramis wants to say, wants to breathe it out against his skin – wants to fold himself into Porthos. _You’re alive and you’re safe,_ he wants to say. _I’ve got you,_ he wants to say again. He checks him over, fears for the wound in his leg, for gangrene, for fever, for infection – for losing him before he ever had a chance to hold him again. 

(He thinks of Adele, he thinks of Isabelle – dead because of him. His heart seizes with the fear of losing Anne, of losing his son for his own foolishness – for losing his son to an illness before he can even leave the cradle.

It untwists itself looking at Porthos now. The thought of losing Porthos – the thought of being without Porthos—

It is protection that he withdrew from Porthos. It is protection that he said nothing to Porthos. It is protection, it is protection—)

And yet his hands shake against Porthos’ coat, blinking absently at the necklace hanging around his neck, the saint pendant against his throat. He looks up at Porthos. Porthos is looking at him but, true to the request so many months ago, Porthos says nothing. Asks nothing of him. 

There’s the long stand-off, in which the four of them linger in the courtyard, waiting for Treville. Porthos needs tending, and Aramis knows better than to wait for the surgeon (they used to spend long nights complaining about the regiment’s surgeon and his unskilled hands in comparison to Aramis’ needlework, laughed sweetly at the jokes of seamstresses and close stitching) but also knows there’s only so much he can do out in the field like this. At least Porthos had the sense to tie his belt around his thigh, and his hands rest at his hip as he frowns down at the bandages. 

“You’ll be alright,” he says, desperately, if only to convince himself. 

“Of course,” Porthos answers, again as if it is the easiest thing in the world. 

(There’s so much he could say.

There’s so much he won’t say.) 

He thinks of Adele – how could he not – of all those he’s lost in his wake. His mind flits back to his son, dying in his cradle, possibly already dead – and the shaking in his hands is back. 

“Porthos,” he whispers, his voice hitching. 

He thinks of that moment in the courtyard, with the crying infant in his mother’s arms. He thinks of his own infant, held only once and for far too briefly, calmed by his lullaby. 

He thinks of the moment in the courtyard, where he failed to protect Porthos – when Porthos was dragged away from him. Almost lost to him, too. 

He clenches his eyes shut. A hand touches at his shoulder and when he looks up, Porthos is looking at him – sympathetic and gentle, despite the pain that tenses up his entire body. (Aramis can remember the feel of these hands on him, on bare skin, thumbs hooking against the back of his ears and dragging him in close, mouth against mouth.) 

“I’m alright,” Porthos says, quiet, and just as always, he knows exactly what plagues Aramis’ mind, knows exactly what to say, so calmly. “You got me.” 

Aramis nods, his throat closing up for a moment. “Yes.” 

He can breathe again – at least a little. At least for now, Porthos is safe. At least for now, Porthos is alive. 

 

-

 

His chance to speak to Porthos, his chance to apologize to Porthos, is interrupted because once he stretches out on his bed, he passes out – the pain and exhaustion catching up on him after so long. His face is flushed and his sleep is uneasy – but he is at least lively enough that Aramis doesn’t feel that he needs to hold his breath for fear of losing him in these moments. 

Athos stands by the door and d’Artagnan hovers, fetching anything Aramis asks for – which is all the same, if only so he can focus simply on Porthos. He’s often running between Aramis and out the door, fetching new cloth, new bandages, more fresh water. Aramis watches the steady rise and fall of Porthos’ chest, and there’s the slightest wheeze every so often that makes Aramis freeze up in horrified terror that he must force down in order to continue his work.

Aramis checks over Porthos constantly for any sign of fever – refusing to believe that both those most important to him should be lost to the same ailment. 

But it’s a blessing, in a way, that Porthos should be knocked out as he is. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to keep steady and concentrated if he were thinking of all the things to say to Porthos, if he were wishing Athos and d’Artagnan were out of the room so that they could have privacy with him. 

He attempts for about two seconds to rehearse what he’ll say – but his thoughts are jumbled up, a mess of relief and fear that he can’t quite sort through. Not when he’s supposed to be tending to him. Not when his hands must be steady. 

It’s just as well that he should focus on that, because if he lets his mind wander, he’ll cry for it all. The sheer relief of having Porthos under his hands again and the sheer terror that there’s a little life in the palace passing away before it ever had a chance to truly live is enough to disrupt even the soundest of minds. And his mind has been anything but sound these last few months. 

He cleans the wound, stitches Porthos up – looks up at him for any change in his expression, for any signs of distress or pain pushing through his exhaustion. The wound doesn’t seem infected and the lack of a fever means it likely isn’t anything beyond a bad wound. 

He almost does cry. He just manages not to. 

 

-

 

Later, when he learns that the Dauphin is well again, that he has survived—

Later, when he knows that Porthos will be well, that he has survived—

Later, he can breathe fully again. When he prays to his God, when he kisses the cross, his heart overfull – it’s with the knowledge that those in his life are safe. His little child, safe and guarded and protected. Porthos, alive and well. Stubborn and sure-hearted even through all his hardships. 

_May it bring you luck,_ Anne had once told him, tying the cross around his neck. He’d looked at her then as he would any other beautiful woman, not yet realizing just how deeply he would fall, just how deeply he would drown. He presses his lips to the cross now, full of joy and full of longing all the same, but his hands are steady as he looks up at the little sunlit window. 

And he knows that he can breathe again. He knows that they are safe. 

 

-

 

When he returns to the garrison, he finds Porthos sitting at their little table, the one just below Treville’s office. The four of them have spent many afternoons there – eating, talking, cleaning their weaponry, or doing nothing at all. There’s a sense of relief seeing Porthos there now – in the place he truly belongs, the place where he’s happy and health. He’s sitting there, a book open in his hands. He’s smiling a little, distant and almost melancholy. 

Aramis hates that sort of smile.

“Should you be on your feet like that?” Aramis asks, a touch of scolding, as he approaches. He removes his hat and fiddles with it, sways on his feet for half a moment – unsure if he should remain standing or sit down beside his friend and brother. 

But then Porthos looks up at him and the smile changes completely. He floats away from that distant kind of sadness and lights up. Porthos grins. 

Porthos’ grin is lopsided and beautiful and it makes Aramis’ heart ache. “I’m not on my feet,” Porthos says, and there’s that note of laughter and teasing to his voice that used to always be there, that used to be as easy between them as breathing. “I’m sitting.” 

“I mean out of bed,” Aramis sighs out, but his lips threaten to quirk up into a smile – relieved still. He can’t smile just yet, feels he hasn’t been able to truly smile aside from the moment he held his son in his arms. But Porthos is as close to happiness as he can get in this moment, and his insides are twisting up in his relief and joy at seeing him up and about, seeing him as easy as he’s always been. 

Porthos shrugs, closes the book and lets it rest on his uninjured leg, before he scoots a little to make room for Aramis to sit beside him. He looks up at him, and there’s no emphasis or words pressed out with the movement, but Aramis knows that it’s some kind of test – some kind of offering. 

Aramis hesitates and almost doesn’t sit, but when he sees the way Porthos glances away, fiddling with the cover of his book, already accepting that his offer was rejected – Aramis thinks better of it and does sit down beside him. His knee brushes up against Porthos’ leg before he pulls it away just as quickly. He looks at Porthos, who doesn’t react to it, and when Aramis shifts a little, places his hat back on his head, his leg moves with him until it’s pressed up to the long length of Porthos’ thigh. 

“What are you reading?” he asks, his voice quiet – gravelling out with his longing. 

“Samara gave it to me,” Porthos explains, turns the cover so Aramis can look. “Poems.” 

Aramis knows that tone of his voice, looks at Porthos for a long moment. There’s a small, familiar spark of jealousy that he knows he has no right to feel – and yet he sees it in the quirk of Porthos’ lips. Knows that, in another life, he’d pull Porthos into his apartment and demand details that Porthos could whisper out against his stomach, recount every little thing he did to Samara and recreate it on Aramis as the willing canvas. But Porthos offers nothing more and Aramis eventually breathes out a little, taking off his hat and fiddling with the feathers there. His fingers itch for something to do. He itches to touch Porthos. 

“It seems the two of you found some time to bond,” Aramis says, slow and cautious – still so unsure of his footing, still so unsure of what to say to Porthos, of how to speak to Porthos, of how to be normal with Porthos again. Even saying so much feels too intimate for how long they’ve spent not talking to one another, not truly speaking to one another. It feels so long ago now. 

“In a manner of speaking,” Porthos replies, looking down at the book of poetry, that same little smile tilting his lips up, dimpling up his cheeks. Aramis loves that smile, remembers when that smile was directed only at him. But there’s a touch of sadness there, a bitterness. 

“Porthos?” he asks, quiet. He hooks his fingers into the band holding the feathers to his hat, to keep them from shaking, to keep himself from reaching out and kissing Porthos, or holding Porthos – or just touching him only to be pushed away. He doesn’t know. 

“We just… thought of the world differently,” Porthos decides after a long pause to consider his words. He flips the book over, runs his thumb down along the edge of the pages. Aramis almost reaches out to steady his hands, knows Porthos’ quiet habit of fidgeting as something easily ignored, nothing like the way Aramis can fiddle with his hat or his gun or the buttons of his coat. But he resists, and instead just looks at Porthos for a long moment – drinks him in. 

Unused to such scrutiny, Porthos gives him a shy little smile as he scrubs his hand down over his face, scratches at his beard. His thumb brushes over his lip as he sighs out and then drops his hand back down, head tilting down with it. Aramis just drinks him in – wanting to do so much at once and unsure how to proceed. In another life, there’d be heated kisses, quietly whispered reassurances against his mouth. Now, the idea of leaning in to kiss Porthos only to be pushed away, only to be told it’s too late – terrifies him more than looking down the barrel of a gun ever could. 

What a strange time to start thinking, really – for all the years Porthos and others have accused him of not thinking, of impulsive, stupid decisions. Porthos bites at his bottom lip, chews on it thoughtfully and then looks back up at Aramis. He sees the small flicker of Porthos’ eyes, which means he was being watched in this dip of seconds. There’s an awkwardness – an uncertainty on how to proceed. 

“She couldn’t understand that I was already home,” Porthos offers, quiet, and Aramis knows what it means for Porthos to tell him of this, after so long. 

“Yes,” Aramis breathes out. He remembers all the times that Porthos has told him so in the past – the slide of his hands along Aramis’ waist, or the feeling of those strong hands cupping his jaw, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. He remembers the quiet reiteration: _you are my home, you are my home, you are my home—_

He remembers how warm and large Porthos’ hands always were. Remembers that feeling of wonder that a man so large and so strong should be so gentle. The gentlest of men that Aramis has ever known – and yet so strong. Handled and faced so much and yet still managed to be so happy, so full of life – to still feel an unerring loyalty and capacity for love. Aramis, for all his faults and flaws, has always admired as much from Porthos – that his heart should be so large and so capable of such deep, unending love. How thoroughly unworthy he feels of that. 

Aramis knows better than to speak now, knows that if he does, he won’t stop, that he’ll throw himself down at Porthos’ feet and sob out praise to him, beg him for forgiveness. 

So instead he says, “Porthos.” Instead he says, “Would you like to go back to my room? We can have some wine – you can tell me all about it.” Aramis offers, his voice low and uncertain, “You should be resting.” 

Porthos’ surprise is obvious – and it breaks Aramis’ heart to see it there. It’s been a long time since either has been invited back to the other’s room. It seems so long ago now that they used to do this with such ease, that it would go without saying. A long time since he felt those large hands on the small of his back, since he felt the sigh of his kiss, since he felt their chests pressing together, flat and expanding with excited breath. 

Aramis takes a second to steady himself, to wait for a refusal – to hope for an acceptance. When he looks up at Porthos, Porthos is returning his gaze – hopeful, despite it all. 

“Yeah,” Porthos says quietly. “I’d like that.” 

 

-

 

(He thinks of all the loves he’s known and all the loves he’s lost – lost to death, lost to distance, lost to betrayal. 

He knows he loves the queen and his heart aches for it. His heart aches for the little child that can never be his. The child he wants more than anything else in this entire world. 

And he thinks of that breathless moment when he failed to take the shot, that breathless moment when he almost lost Porthos. 

He thinks of all the loves he’s known and all the loves he’s lost.)

 

-

 

He leaves Porthos in his room long enough to fetch a bottle of wine from his stores. His hands are shaking a little, but not from fear or anger – rather, for the first time in so long, he feels nervous and uncertain. He moves quickly, disappearing around the corner, keeping to the shadows. It isn’t that he has anything to hide, not like this. It’s only that he cannot stand the idea of being detained or stopped for something senseless like small talk or garrison talk. All he can think of in this moment is Porthos. Porthos alone. The love of his life, almost lost to him, unknowing the depth of Aramis’ own regard for him. He—

He takes off his hat before he knocks, and hesitates for half a moment more before he thinks better of it and lets himself back into Porthos’ room, shutting the door with a decisive click behind him. He locks it up and takes a couple of seconds to let his thoughts catch up with the rest of him. Porthos has removed his uniform and his boots, sitting stretched out on his bed as Aramis had instructed before he’d left to fetch the alcohol. He’s wearing that loose collared shirt that Aramis loves, that Aramis picked for him, has stitched up countless times. It’s the one with lace, the one that always makes Porthos look so pretty (and saying so only ever makes Porthos scoff). 

(In another life, perhaps.)

— _stop it._

“Sorry for taking so long,” Aramis offers as way of greeting, crossing the room to Porthos’ little table, fetching the cleanest looking cups he can find. Porthos hums a little in response, but when Aramis looks over at him, he’s anything but distracted – his eyes opened and focused on him. Aramis’ hands tremble a little as he pours the wine. He breathes out in a shaky little exhale. Then he crosses the room and hands Porthos a cup. 

He sits down on the edge of it, toes off his own boots with some distracted effort. They don’t say anything and Aramis watches from the corner of his eye as Porthos nurses his drink even slower than Aramis does his own. 

“It’s been a long time since we’ve done this,” Aramis offers. “I—”

“Aramis,” Porthos interrupts, and he sounds tired. Aramis looks up from his wine and towards Porthos, who regards him with a quiet kind of resignation. 

Porthos doesn’t say anything else, but there’s enough weight to the name to send a small shiver down Aramis’ spine. He takes a deep, steadying breath – and knows that he is selfish, that he is foolish. He never has been good at obeying his mind and its logic when his heart is so wretchedly entwined with all else in his life. 

He almost lost Porthos. He almost lost his son. The idea of losing either of them is enough to freeze his blood and curdle him from the inside out. 

But Porthos is looking at him now – confused, pushed away. He’s looking at him now as he always has: as his friend and brother. Despite all his failings, Aramis has never doubted Porthos’ loyalty – only ever questioned whether he deserved it or not. And Porthos is looking at him now – strong and brave and _alive._

Aramis attempts a weak smile, but it’s a hopeless attempt and he soon abandons it in favor of taking a long drink from his cup. He hopes that Porthos won’t see the way his hand shakes and knows that there’s no way Porthos won’t notice. 

He knows that he is selfish. 

Which is why, he decides, he is tired of running. 

“There’s this man that I love,” Aramis says suddenly, diving in – because he knows that he can’t stop it, won’t ever stop it. “He’s strong and he’s kind. He’s beautiful.”

Whatever he was expecting Aramis to say, it’s clear that Porthos is taken aback by the subject. His brow furrows in confusion and he shifts a little on the bed, stretching his legs out with gentle care so as not to disrupt the stitching or the aching soreness to his leg. But he’s frowning at Aramis, utterly confused. 

Aramis almost smiles for it – almost cries for it. For all of Porthos’ observations, for all his steadfast loyalty and integrity, there’s always been that joke between them that Porthos, utterly hopeless with romance, never gets hints. It’s clear now that he hasn’t gotten it, that he’s confused – and while part of Aramis wants to laugh for it, the rest of him wants to cry for the understanding that _he_ is the reason Porthos doubts Aramis’ feelings. 

“His loyalty is unequaled and watching him fight is something to behold, even when I worry for him.” He breathes out, shakily, his hands clenching together. He swallows down with an audible click. “And while it’s been a long time, I still remember the way he holds me and the way he kisses me. I never feel safer than when I’m with him.”

He looks at Porthos now, and at least then there’s the smallest frown at the corners of his lips – the smallest dawning of understanding. Aramis breathes out and nods. He lets his voice go soft, takes no hesitation as he steps that one last step over the edge – and falls, falls, falls. 

“It’s you, Porthos.”

Porthos breathes out, too, looks amazed for a moment (and how endearing, that he should). He closes his eyes to the words, lets them settle between them. Aramis doesn’t dare breathe and doesn’t dare move to take it back. He lets himself fall. He lets himself acknowledge that he fell a long time ago. 

Porthos – strong and beautiful and loyal – opens his eyes, bruised with something deep and hopeful, and just looks at him for a long moment. Aramis holds his gaze, doesn’t let it flicker or waver. He looks at Porthos – the man he loves. The man he loves more than he can breathe. 

Porthos looks at him back, and there’s a gentle movement in the slide of his eyes over Aramis’ face, hopeful and vulnerable – almost childlike for a moment before his expression clouds over with something a little sadder, hesitant. 

“Why now?” he asks and Aramis aches to reach out to him. Instead, he takes their cups and sets them down on the floor beside Porthos’ bed. It’s a fair question but it still hurts to hear. 

“I thought –” he chokes on his words, unable to speak for the thought of it. “I thought you were going to die, Porthos. Already dead and because of me. I thought – I thought I’d lose you. And…”

But he trails off, as halfway through his words, Porthos starts to laugh, shaking his head. It’s a soft, weak chuckle – but there all the same, and even that much is enough to light up Porthos’ face in a way that would stop anyone’s heart. Aramis presses his mouth shut. 

Aramis must look utterly bewildered, because Porthos just shakes his head more, his laughter light and disbelieving. 

“What are you talking about?” he asks, laughter in his eyes – confused still, his brow furrowed with that confusion, and looking at him in utter wonderment. “Of course you were all going to save me. Nothing was going to happen to me.” 

Aramis feels his eyes cloud over with tears before he wills them away, closing his eyes and releasing a shaky breath. He wants to smile, he wants to dismiss it – but his fear and longing is still palpable, the combination of two important people, the most important people, almost lost to him forever. 

“How can you be so sure?” he asks, his voice wobbling. 

“It never was even a doubt in my mind,” Porthos says. “I knew you’d come for me. I had no reason to think otherwise.” 

“It’s my fault you were in danger in the first place,” Aramis whispers. “I’m so sorry, Porthos.”

“What?” Porthos scoffs, light and airy, dismissive. “Of course it wasn’t. Tariq was in your line of fire – it wasn’t your fault.” 

“It was,” Aramis insists. He can’t give Porthos the true reason, he can’t explain it – that fear of losing his son, that fear striking him dumb in that one moment of hearing a child’s cry, of only being able to hold his son but once before he was gone, gone, gone – as if that could ever be enough for him, as if he could ever live with himself for losing a second child. 

“It wasn’t,” Porthos says, just as insisting. He lifts his hand and there’s the barest moment of hesitation (Aramis hates to see it) before he’s reaching out and laying it gently over Aramis’ clenched fists in his lap. A shiver runs down Aramis’ spine at the touch, the coolness of Porthos’ fingertips a welcomed distraction from the fear running hot through his veins. Porthos says, “Aramis.” 

“You don’t understand,” Aramis sighs out, shoulders tensing up. There’s a throbbing in his head, against his temples. There’s a twist of his heart that means he’s not ready to let go, he’s not ready to say goodbye. 

He’ll never want to say goodbye to Porthos. 

“Then explain it,” Porthos offers.

Aramis shakes his head, turns more fully towards him and scoots down the bed so that he’s closer to him. He looks at Porthos, reaches out and touches his shoulder, to steady himself, to remind himself that Porthos is _here_. Porthos’ hands cup his arms, slide down over his biceps. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Porthos blinks at him once, slow and thoughtful, and then he smiles a little. “I forgive you. Every time.”

“But,” Aramis starts.

“I trust you with my life every day, Aramis. I never doubt I’ll be alright.” 

(Aramis thinks of Adele. Thinks of Isabelle—)

Porthos is slow and steady, his breathing deep and consistent. Aramis focuses on that, focuses on that steady break of the long silence that passes between them. 

He swallows down and this time Aramis knows that Porthos sees the tears welling up in his eyes before he shuts them tight. There’s another hand at the back of his neck, gentle there, brushing back his hair (he remembers the way Porthos’ hands felt in his hair, before it was as long as this) and kneading a little into his neck, a gentle reminder of so many nights spent after Savoy in which it was Porthos who would comfort him back to a wakeful sleep. 

He tilts his head, gentle, to that touch, and his own hands are shaking when they move to touch at Porthos – nothing behind it other than the need to reassure himself of Porthos. His fingertips skim over Porthos’ ribcage, feels the steady beat of his heart beneath his palm when it presses to the fabric of that laced collared shirt he loves so much. 

He thinks of telling Porthos everything – he thinks about it sometimes, of confessing fully to Porthos, to suffering the brunt of his anger, his betrayal, his sadness on his behalf. He thinks of testing Porthos’ unyielding loyalty. He knows he never can, he knows that Porthos can never know—

He knows that he can’t stay away from Porthos. Can’t lose him again. Can’t ever lose him. To lose him is to stop existing entirely, to stop functioning, to lose the fraying edges of his sanity and his level of calm. To be without Porthos is unimaginable. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again. 

“Aramis,” Porthos sighs. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. You did your duty as best you could, as did I. I’m alive. I’m alright.” 

“You could have died,” Aramis insists and this time he knows he’s crying and he doesn’t _care_. 

“We risk that every day,” Porthos reminds him and Aramis knows he’s right, but still he can’t stop crying. He squeezes his hands where he holds Aramis, against his neck, against his wrist. 

Porthos looks at him for a long moment, and then his expression ripples into something sad, sympathetic. He shifts forward, cups his face, draws him in close. Aramis breathes out a shaky sigh and drops his forehead to Porthos, his bottom lip wobbling with the efforts of holding back a sob. He hasn’t cried like this in so long. For a long moment, their foreheads is the only place they touch, their breath mingling between them as Aramis attempts to shudder in a heaving breath.

And then Porthos’ arms wrap around him and he folds into Porthos, their foreheads pressed together still. 

Aramis hasn’t cried from sheer relief, from sadness, from pain and longing in so long – so much that’s built up over these last few months and now comes spilling out. He sobs, and Porthos just holds him close, doesn’t say a word, doesn’t demand a thing – just holds him. It all comes spilling out of Aramis and his breathes become heaving sobs, arms wrapping around Porthos and clinging to him with all the force he can muster. 

He doesn’t know how long he stays like that – just holding tight to Porthos, melting against him with the warmth and strength of those arms wrapped around him. He knows he can’t tell Porthos, that there’s still so much that Porthos doesn’t know, but this, at least, is enough for now—

For now, Porthos is alive. Porthos is alright. Porthos is holding him. 

There’s still so much he longs for. But this, at least, he wants. This, at least, he can have. This, at least, makes his heart stutter back to life after so many months of silence, after so many months of uncertainties, after so many months of self-denial. This, at least, he’s done running from.

“Porthos,” he whispers once he settles enough, once he aches and is as close to Porthos as he can manage. Porthos’ arms are wrapped around him and he feels safe. 

“I won’t die,” Porthos answers, and they both know it’s not a promise he can truly give but still Aramis shivers to hear it. “Who’d take care of you if I was gone, yeah?” 

Instead of making him laugh, this just renews a quiet little gasp of pain from Aramis. Porthos’ hands lift, fist into his hair. Hold him close. 

(He thinks of Isabelle. He thinks of Adele.) 

He heaves out a shaky sob.

(He thinks of his son, almost gone to him forever.) 

He shifts closer, brushes his nose up against Porthos where their foreheads still press together. 

(He thinks of a life without Porthos.

An impossible existence.) 

“I’ve loved you for so long,” Aramis whispers out and to finally say it after so long is something like a relief. He’s kept it in for so long – even in another life, even stretched out with Porthos as he was so often, he never managed to speak the words. 

“Me too,” Porthos murmurs back, just the tiniest note of hesitation to his voice. When Aramis doesn’t withdraw (never again, never again), he adds, “That’s why I knew I would be safe. That’s why I knew I wouldn’t die – that you’d get to me. That you’d find me.” 

Aramis blinks his eyes open – finds Porthos looking back at him. He cups Porthos’ face, mimicking Porthos’ own pose, and they stay like that for a long moment, just looking at each other. 

“You’d get to me, every time,” Porthos whispers, with no hesitation and no doubt in his voice. 

Aramis’ smile is wobbly when he manages it – but it’s a smile all the same. Wide, watery, but his and for Porthos alone. 

Porthos’ own expressions softens, his thumbs gliding over his cheeks to brush away the tears there. 

“Haven’t seen that smile in a long time,” Porthos whispers and Aramis chokes out a small sob, smiling through his tears, knowing he looks ridiculous and also knowing that Porthos doesn’t care. 

“Yes,” Aramis hiccups out in a soft, breathless laugh, weighed down by too much. He slides his hands from Porthos’ face, slips his fingers into his hair. “Oh, Porthos…” 

“Hey,” Porthos agrees, and his eyes lower down a bit as he brushes their noses together again. He’s smiling, and he’s breathing, and he’s so close and looking at him with that small little hope Aramis hasn’t seen in so long. His thumb brushes over his cheek. “You don’t have to cry.” 

“Oh, my love,” Aramis breathes out, his entire body melting at just being able to call him so, slipping forward to press against him more fully, careful still not to disrupt the wound, the hands in his hair careful not to press against the bump to the back of his skull. He smiles at him, thin and uncertain, but unable to stop it. There’s a delirious kind of happiness that’s twisting up inside of him, a delirious kind of relief – something he hasn’t felt in months, something he hasn’t felt in a long time. 

His heart still aches for his child. His heart still aches for Anne. For Isabelle, for Adele – for all those he’s lost and all those he’s loved. But Porthos, at least, can be his. Porthos, at least, has his heart. Porthos, at least, is alive and loves him, too. 

There’s still so much he hasn’t told Porthos – still so much he can’t tell him. For his protection, for his son’s protection, for the queen’s protection. There will never be a time when he’s happy to lie to him. 

But held as he is, smiled at as he is – that, at least, is enough to make him breathe easily again. That, at least, is enough to assure him that he is not alone, that he is not useless. Porthos, at least, could never blame him. Porthos, at least, will stay by his side even when Aramis knows he does not deserve it. 

“I love you,” he whispers. “Forgive me for taking so long to tell you so.” 

“You’ll just have to make up for lost time,” Porthos agrees, and his smile is full-blown, wide and unrelenting – achingly beautiful. Just as Aramis remembers. 

When he kisses Aramis, it is sweet and gentle, and somehow just as bruising as Aramis remembers. He sighs out, melts against him, and kisses him back with everything he can manage, parted lips and hitching breath, his eyes fluttering shut. It is short and it is brief and it is not nearly enough to make up for so many months of separation – but it is all he can manage for now. They break apart, looking at each other. 

Aramis hiccups a little laugh, knows that he must look ridiculous – splotchy-faced, puffy-eyed, but happy. At least, for the first time in so long, for the first time beyond the moment he held his son in his arms, he is happy. 

“I missed you,” Porthos whispers, as if uncertain if he should admit to it. 

Aramis closes his eyes, slides his hands down to push at Porthos’ shoulders until he’s lying back, and shifts to move over him, hands pressed to his chest, feeling that steady rise and fall of his breath, that pulse of his heartbeat. 

“I missed you, too,” Aramis agrees, his voice choking up. “Forgive me.”

“Always,” Porthos answers. He lifts a hand and cups the back of his neck. “Now. Tell me more about this man you love.” 

Aramis laughs again, and how easily it feels to laugh after so long, and nods his head. They strip each other down and that night, they make love to each other face to face, Aramis crying until, finally, Porthos tears up as well. Little words pass between them, aside from some quiet confessions, or one or two jokes about this mysterious man he loves and the things he does to him. Mostly, they just hold each other, their movements slow and precise, Aramis purposefully mindful not to disturb Porthos’ leg. 

But most of all, they just smile at each other and Porthos’ thumb wipes the tears from his eyes whenever they might fall. There are laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, a little bit of silver in his hair and Aramis memorizes every moment of Porthos’ face – memorizes this feeling, memorizes the way Porthos looks at him. Promises to himself that he’ll never again let anything happen to this man. 

And for it all, Aramis reminds himself that Porthos is alive – reminds himself how to breathe, reminds himself how to love, reminds himself the feeling of completion, of that need that leaves him incapable of forgetting Porthos, of leaving him behind, of being without him. He’s gone too long without remembering that, and for the first time in so long, he feels alive again. As they drift off to sleep in one another’s arms, the last thing he knows is the feel of Porthos’ lips against his temple, the curve of his smile, the gentle relaxation to Porthos’ shoulders. A mutual happiness. 

And through it all, Aramis breathes.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on [my tumblr.](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/)


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